


Warrior and his Prince

by Witchergirl98



Series: Barbarian au [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Jaskier hates his father, Jaskier’s father dies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer is blunt but nice, barbarian Eskel, barbarian Lambert, barbarian Vesemir, barbarian au, barbarian geralt, no grammar we die like barbarians!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchergirl98/pseuds/Witchergirl98
Summary: The prince meets the barbarians.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Barbarian au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018807
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	Warrior and his Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like the first chapter. More will come but it may take me a while to get them. Please be patient with me 😊

A group of ships sailed towards the large towering castle sitting atop a cliff. A tall figure stood at the helm looking out over the sea to the castle, long silver hair flowing in the breeze. Half pulled up and the rest left down stray strands blowing across his face. Some of the windows illuminated by light, showing that some people were still awake in the night. He was going to make these men pay. They in their hatred and greed attacked his mentor injuring him before running off, chased by his fellow warriors. All they did was attack a sleeping man like cowards. They were going to pay. 

-5 Hours before -

Jaskier wipes away the tears he had trailing down his cheeks. His father had been very vocal about how much of a disappointment he was to the Pankratz name. He was to be a ruler after his father, but he only wanted to play music and see the world. His father wasn’t having it, had even said-in no small amount of shouting-that he would force him to stay and take the throne. If only he could just escape the duties his father thrust upon him before leaving to go to a very important gathering.

Glancing at the guards on either side of the throne Jaskier decides he’d rather not risk getting hurt trying to run. No doubt, he thinks, that his father told them to make sure he stays even at the risk of injuring him. Jaskier lets a sigh slip from his lips as yet another long line of people steps forward, each person requesting for more land, more time to get their coin saved up before paying-the current person requesting just that more time. He feels for the people under his fathers rule, truly he does but there’s only so much he can do for them without gaining more of his father’s ire. If he could give them what they wanted he would, freedom, coin, more land or just all of the above. 

Jaskier could only sink down into the throne a bit, hiding his wince at the saddened look on the older gentlemen’s face at not being given more time. If only he could be free of his fathers clutches, if only he could free these people he’d be happier-more than any day he ever was with his father. He just hopes the people understand with the hidden looks he gives them just how guilty he feels. He nearly slips off the throne completely in relief as he was informed that that was the last person of the day to come see him. He could do with a long bath to rid himself of the nausea at having to act like his father. 

Thankfully the halls were empty, save a few of the guardsmen, so walking to his room had taken very little time. Closing the door and locking it for good measure before heading to the wash basin. He places the buckets of water near the fire to warm up as he goes about stripping off his deep blue silk shirt, lined with golden embroidery in the shape of two small leaves on either part of the collar. His boots and pants, each colored and decorated the same, come off next followed by his underclothes. The water had warmed up enough by the time he sets out his oils and soap. Taking the buckets and pouring them into the basin, a nice steam rising from the water.

He sunk himself down into the warm water with a groan as he finally gets to relax. This is the only time he’ll admit to liking being a royal heir. Grabbing the rosemary scented bar of soap he lathers up a good bit, setting the bar back down and making sure he washed every part of himself clean. After thoroughly washing himself and dunking down below the water to rinse off the soap does he relax back. Looking out the window watching the fading light of the evening bringing reds and yellows, oranges and purples, “sometimes I wish I could fly and be free of my father.” 

He nearly falls over standing up quickly when a loud band resounds in his room, “Julian open this door now!” His father has returned it seems, getting out of the water and wrapping himself in a sheet he goes to unlock his door. Jaskier grips the sheet stumbling back as his father barges into his room looking a mess with his hair ruffled. His clothes looked torn in places as if cut by a weapon, “what happened? What did you-,” he flinched as his father turned to stare at him. “Tonight your going to sit on the throne and not move from there understand?” 

Jaskier could feel a slow building sense of dread in his stomach. What did his father do? What had happened at the gathering? He flinched yet again when his father raised his hand to smack him and nodded hurriedly, realizing he hadn’t given his assurance, “o-of course father.” His father stared at him in silence a few minutes longer before walking out, ordering the guards to make sure he followed his demand. What did his father do? 

He had dressed up in his royal silks again matching the ones he wore in the day, only now they were a rich vermillion. He glanced at the guards keeping positions around him so he wouldn’t leave. The whole castle remained silent even as the servants went about their jobs. As the evening dragged on the sense of dread only growing at his stomach. Sometimes he just hates his father even more then he usually does. 

He nearly falls off the throne as screams from the outside reach him. The sounds of swords clashing ringing loudly as the guards looked to each other. A sharp crisp feeling of something buzzed in the air sending tingles down Jaskier’s neck. what was going on? What did his father do? 

The large doors leading to the throne room slammed open, two of the guards being thrown back by some invisible force. Following them in was a group of four very scary, and very angry looking people. Three wearing nothing more than furred cloths around their waists and each a different form of leather harness crossing over their bare chests. The last wearing a dark black gown, a slit adorning one side of it revealing a long slender leg. The man farthest to the left was a tall lithe man with short black hair and stubbled beard on his jaw. Two vertical scars tracing down the right side of his face one of them going over his eye, both of which were a light amber in color the pupils slit like a cats. 

The one next to him was an equally tall man packed with more muscle and ear length black hair. A nasty looking scar traveling up the right side of his face from his chin, in three separate intertwining scars, up over his lip coming to rest just near his eye-his matching the others but taking on a more orangish amber. The third was a slender woman with long waving locks of obsidian hair. Her skin smooth and unblemished unlike the last two, her gaze was a piercing shade of violet. The feeling of the sharp buzz that filled the air surrounding her. 

The last of the group, leading them in, was a tall built man sporting long locks of silver hair and stubble along his chiseled jaw. His body was riddled with scars the most prominent being the one over his left eye, which were a very striking golden shade of amber. The pupils slit just like the other two. Jaskier sat frozen on the throne watching the four figures make their way up to him, weapons drawn and the buzz in the air increasing. Swallowing he kept his shaking as minimal as he could get it, what with being stared down by four piercing gazes. Did he mention how much he hates his father? 

~~

Geralt watched as the lord of Lettonhove talked amongst his accompanying guard. The man had black hair draped down below his ears, his locks just a little too straight. His skin a shade of pale belonging to someone who rarely ever sees the light of day. Crows feet resting around the edges of his eyes, eyes that belonged to a cruel ruler. His outfit consisted of some fancy shirt of a deep blue with red leaf designs sewn into the collar, the pants being a deep shade of burgundy lined with barely noticeable designs similar to the shirt.

He didn’t trust them-didn’t trust him specifically-the man permeated the air with the scent of someone with bad intentions. There was a small amount of another’s scent on him, smelling similar to him but it had a tinge of sadness in it. Strange, but he couldn’t focus on what the man did at home, not now. He just wanted these men out of his lands. They had enough trouble from lords in the past.

Geralt looked to his left as one of his brothers, Eskel, in all but blood walked up to stand beside him. “I don’t like how they just walked in here without an ounce of fear,” Eskel’s words held a tinge of terseness as he spoke. Geralt grunted his agreement to the statement watching them, his hand twitching to grab his sword. “They have the stench of a rat about them. Ready and willing to turn on others,” he growled out the words lowly. Watching as the lord and his guards talk casually while surrounded by enemies.

Were these men brave or just stupid?

The feast had been filled with shouting and laughing as usual, but tension was high in the air with the newcomers. Their presence had made the food taste bitter and soured the ale. Geralt sent them off with Eskel, after the feast was finished, to the guest rooms so that he could think. What the hell did these outsiders want? Why were they here? More questions kept popping up with no answers for them in sight. 

He paced around his room unable to sit still with more questions invading his thoughts. How long were they going to stay here for? What did they want? More questions and not a single answer to them, he fears the answers to all of them will be the same. The obvious answer was bloodshed to claim more land. He didn’t want to immediately jump to conclusions, Vesemir, his mentor, would scold him for doing so. But he felt as if every question was answered with that assumption. And that sent a trill of worry through him.

Geralt heaved a heavy sign needing to clear his mind, it wouldn’t do him any good to have a clouded head. It was with his slow deep breathing that he picks up the scent of blood, one he’s all too familiar with that sends him careening out the door with sword drawn. He had hoped bloodshed wasn’t the answer but it seems that’s exactly what these unknown outsiders wanted. And blood they spilled. The blood of his mentor and father figure.

The sounds of shouting and swords clanging against stone has him pushing himself harder, reaching where the blood smelled strongest in a matter of seconds. Rounding the corner he catches sight of the outsiders running off trailed after by his two brothers. He left the attackers to his brothers as he rushed into the room and over to Vesemir. His mentor was leaning against his bed groaning, covered in small cuts and stabs along his back-most likely caused by a dagger. The cowards attacked him in his sleep. 

“Don’t worry about me I’ll be fine. You go deal with this mess, they’ll be waiting on your word on how to deal with this,” though his voice sounded pained; Vesemir still held the commanding tone of when he was the leader. Of when he lead their merry band of what was once only just four of them. Reminiscing could come later though he had an attack to plan. A force to gather up.

He had cowards to kill.

Geralt gathered up his swords strapping them to his back, held in place by the brown worn leather harness resting across his bare chest. The rest of his clothes consisted of a loincloth made from the fur of a white wolf, boots lined with white tufts of fur the rest a deep brown. Hard leather bracers on his forearms strapped tight to keep them in place. He gathered up his hair holding half of it back in a ponytail leaving the rest down, grabbing a leather string to tie it off. Everything ready he heads out to the mass of awaiting warriors, ready to get back at the ones who dared attack the eldest of their own. 

The plan was simple and if all things went well they’d get their revenge. They were to follow the ship of the nobles at a safe distance, wait out the day till night came. Then they’d attack, making sure the innocents were out of harms way. They were Barbarians but they knew attacking innocents would do no good. Let alone those innocents aren’t the ones who attacked and are most likely suffering at the hands of the cowardly lord.

The ships were ready and boarded within minutes, setting sail trailing after the lord’s ship-with the help of their strongest mage. “How far behind are we to them, Yen?,” Geralt looked over at the raven haired woman watching as she worked her magic in ways one would dream of accomplishing. “Just a few hours behind, judging by how far they got I’d say by atleast one maybe two hours.” So they weren’t too far from them atleast. Good, he was ready to spill blood. 

It took them nearly the whole two hours just to reach the waters leading to the home of those bastards. The castle sitting large and imposing on the cliff with the evening sky darkening. Till nightfall he was safe from their wrath but once the night truly got dark, well, he’d see just what he started. Those walls won’t be keeping him safe for long. Not if Geralt has a say in it, and he definitely had a say. No one hurts his family and gets away with it. 

Once night had fallen all hell broke loose. Men and women screaming as the fights started breaking out, men dressed in ridiculous looking armor marching towards them. Looking like a bunch of brightly colored peacocks. If he weren’t fighting currently Geralt would be laughing at the absurdity of it. As it stands though he will have to keep it to himself as he fights his way to the castle. 

Geralt could give some of the men credit as they fought better then most they faced in battle. But they still couldn’t withstand the mass of warriors he brought. The warriors being all that was left of their clans. Men like this lord having used the same tactic of playing the peace bringing bird, but were hiding the leering vulture behind the pretty feathers of their true intentions. They were the reason why they all banded together in one hold. And he was going to make sure they never repeated this offense again.

Making his way up to the castle took no time at all. The men falling like flies to the combined forces of all the clans and the magic yennefer was casting. Geralt watched as she did just that casting a wave of fire at a group. Melting their armor into their own skin and searing their flesh-carrying painful wails into the wind. The way up to the castle was cleared easily enough. Ordering the rest to stay outside and make sure no one else interrupts. Stepping forward Geralt, along with Yennefer, and his two brothers step inside. 

The inside was just as colorful as the men’s armor. Halls decorated with deep blue silk sheets draped down walls and dark purple rugs lining the stone floors. Candles lining the halls on chandeliers lighting the way. All of it heading into the direction of a massive set of doors guarded by only four men. Was this lord that stupid? To only have four men guarding him inside his home? 

Moving his hand in intricate motions Geralt casts a small burst of magic, knocking two guards through the doors. Both swinging wide open and slamming into the walls behind them. They all walk in the room together weapons drawn and magic at the ready. What met them in the room was nothing more then a young man sitting in the too-big throne, shaking like a leaf in stormy winds. He had short soft chocolate locks curling to frame his face. Eyes as bright as the sea on a calm summers day. From what he could see skin as smooth and rich as caramel. 

Surrounding him were guards that looked ready to bolt and leave the man behind. He glanced at the others seeing equally confused looks, this wasn’t the one they were after. Though he did smell like the man, but he also smelled of fear and sadness-the same sadness that was on the man. The looks only slightly resembled the lord as well, the rest most likely from the mother. He concluded his answer easily enough on who they were staring down.

This was the lords son.

“Who are you? Where is the lord of this land?,” Geralt kept his voice firm trying to ignore the rising scent of fear. “I’ve no idea what your here for but I can’t say I’ve any notion to answer you. As for who I am, I am Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettonhove,” a small tinge of bravery burst into the air lessening the stench of fear as the prince talked, that was new. He’d never met anyone who could be so afraid yet brave. The only question he had really was what did his father do to him that had the scent of sadness permeate into his own. He’d voice it later when he wasn’t currently trying to murder the man who harmed his mentor. 

He was about to voice his thoughts but stopped at Yennefer’s hand resting on his shoulder, “why is the lord not here? Instead he has you sitting here and playing lord for him, why?” Well bluntness was her greatest asset, and seemed to be the right thing to ask as the prince’s eyes had turned away. So he was forced to play lord while his father hid like a scared little child. Maybe it was best to get him away from this place, his gut telling him it was the right thing to do. He mentioned such to the other three with a few looks and they seemed to agree with him-having came to the same conclusion as well. They would likely regret it later, but the lord could wait. 

With a swiftness the guards couldn’t stop yennefer’s magic engulfed them in an all encompassing cold freezing them to the spot. This allowed Geralt to walk up to the prince and lift him up over his shoulder. He could’ve been more thoughtful about holding him but they didn’t want to waste time, so he carried him off on his shoulder. He could see a small scar lining the bared skin of the prince’s hip trailing down underneath the trousers, how far it went he could only guess and it set his hatred for the lord deeper. They were inflicted by a dagger just like his mentors. That man abused his own son and marred his skin. 

Jaskier nearly threw up at the sight of the guards. Many cleaved in half and others charred black, the buzz from the woman feeling similar to what still lingered in the air. “What did my father do to warrant such....such...,” he couldn’t even come up with a word to describe how horrific the sight was. “He proclaimed to want to speak of peace. Then attacked our eldest in his sleep unprovoked,” the words sounded clipped with a hard edge, like he was forcing himself to keep calm. If he were in that situation he doesn’t think he could ever keep himself calm enough to think rationally. That gave a little more understanding to why they had killed the guards now, but didn’t make it hurt any less. A few of the guards were just as innocent as he was.

~~

They had set sail immediately after Geralt had presented Jaskier to the others, letting them know what the bastard of a lord did to his own son. That seemed to draw more anger towards his father and he found that he couldn’t care if they did. Jaskier looked out at the calm rolling sea in wide-eyed wonder, he was never able to leave the castle on account of his father. “It’s....even more beautiful in person, the waves I mean,” he looked over at the large man, Lambert if he recalls correctly when they introduced themselves to him. The man had quite a sharp tongue, snapping back at his brothers with quick unforeseen wit, he would have to have a full chat with him at some point. 

“It is. But not when storms rage,” the young prince was a little more relaxed around them. He had seen a small portion of the scars when Geralt carried him, seeing them had set his anger ablaze. Who in their right mind would ever think to harm their own flesh and blood? Lambert took a deep breath through his nose, no point in being angry infront of him out of the blue. Stepping back when Geralt made his way over silently. 

The morning mists started to clear up drawing a soft, awed gasp from Jaskier. There in the distance was a large standing ruin, holes all along the walls and run down. But in the light of the morning sun it had an alluring pull to it. A feeling of home to it. A freeing notion to it, no more being trapped, no more being trapped. Almost jumping in fright at the hand that laid on his shoulder, seeing his white haired savior. 

“Welcome, to Kaer Morhen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Helpful tips and no hateful comments Please!


End file.
